


Mr. Monk and the Captain’s Conscience

by daasgrrl



Category: Monk - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-16
Updated: 2007-09-16
Packaged: 2017-11-18 05:08:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/557211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daasgrrl/pseuds/daasgrrl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Monk develops an odd reaction after a case.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mr. Monk and the Captain’s Conscience

**Author's Note:**

> Huge Crazy-Warehouse-Guy thanks to **bironic** , who offered to beta out of her fandom, and provided help and encouragement on many fronts. Any remaining suckage is regretfully mine.

So it was the yoga instructor after all. I should have known. You never can trust a man in Lycra.

The headlights threw bright beams into the shadows as we finally drew up to the quarry. It was immediately clear that we weren't the first to arrive; a dark blue station wagon was already there, parked haphazardly next to the chain link fence. Yoga guy's vehicle. That wasn’t exactly an signed admission of guilt, but it was a damn good start. If Monk’s suspicions were right, the second body had to be here, somewhere, and the guy was going to have to retrieve that half-used class card he’d overlooked before it tied him to the murders.

I stopped the car and got out, instinctively expecting Monk to follow. I don’t know what I was thinking. Instead, he wound down the window and began to explain that he really didn’t feel the need to tag along, what with the dark and the dirt and the possible coyotes. But I was of the opinion that if he was going to drag me out of my nice, warm apartment on the strength of one of his hunches, he was damn well coming with me. Natalie had lucked out of this one; she was attending Julie’s school play, and Monk had been forbidden to call her during the performance upon pain of death - technically, upon pain of having his bookshelves rearranged. Which had left me to deal with him alone.

It was never an easy job, and I had progressed beyond reassurances and into outright threats by the time Monk finally got out of the car. Even after that, I had to turn over both flashlights into his custody before he would take more than a couple of steps in any direction. I pointed out the floodlights dotting the perimeter at 20-yard intervals, the half-moon in the sky; it made no difference. Which meant, of course, that when Monk got to the top of the rise, and saw the figure dragging something heavy out from beneath a shallow overhang, his hands were full. One beam of light picked out what was happening no more than thirty feet away; the other swung wildly as he turned back to face me.

“Captain,” he said hoarsely, his eyes meeting mine, and then it all happened at once. The guy glanced up and immediately laid down the bundle, reaching for something at his waist. He didn't bother with threats or warnings; he had clearly recognized us despite the dazzle of the lights, and knew exactly why we were there. In the time it took me to close the three steps to Monk's side, the suspect had already gone into a Weaver stance, obviously being every bit as comfortable there as in the lotus position. I saw Monk turn his head back at the click of the safety, caught the widening of his eyes as a flash of light came from the revolver's muzzle. It was a clear shot even in the half-light, and all I could do was let the weight of my final rush up the slope carry me into Monk, pushing him aside.

There was a small but significant flaw in my tactic, which I realized almost immediately as something punched me hard just under the ribcage. I ended up sprawled on the ground half on top of Monk, with all the wind completely knocked out of me and a burning sensation down one side. Other than that I felt okay, but as I reached for my own weapon my hands started to shake. Two more shots were fired before we untangled ourselves, and I managed to convey to Monk that he needed to exchange both flashlights for my Beretta. For all his many quirks, he seemed to be able to override them in a crisis, and as I lay there listening to the crunch of boots on gravel, I prayed this would be one of those times.

Monk didn't let me down. He stayed down low, twisting around to lift his hands. I saw him blink once, and the curve of his throat as he swallowed, and then he squeezed the trigger. It took the guy by surprise - he must have seen us go down and assumed we were unarmed when there was no immediate return of fire. There was a loud curse and I saw him clutch at his shoulder. Monk could be a slow shooter, but his accuracy ratings had always been high, which somehow wasn’t all that surprising. The odds were now strongly in Monk's favor, and the guy knew it. For a moment it looked like he was going to run, but another shot and a bit of surprisingly convincing yelling from Monk finally persuaded him to stop and put his weapon down on the gravel.

After some fumbling, Monk managed to detach the handcuffs from my belt and moved in to restrain the guy and check on his condition. The solid ratcheting sound of the cuffs told me it was all over. Which was just as well, because it was getting damn cold lying on the ground. Damp, too. I finally put a hand to my side and discovered just how much I was contributing to this state of things. I knew I should try to apply pressure, but the angles were all wrong, and every movement hurt in new and unexpected ways.

“Captain?”

Monk was finally back, having picked up one of the flashlights again in his free hand. His voice sounded shaky after his recent efforts, but that was normal, too.

“Help me up,” I said, but when he reluctantly put down the weapon and held out his arm it turned out that that wasn't going to work either. After a moment I gave up and moved my hands back to my side. Seeing this, he knelt down beside me, in the dirt - it took him three or four false starts, but he managed it. His clothes were already dusty and smudged from the push to the ground; he probably figured most of the damage had already been done. He played the flashlight over my hands, and I moved them a little so that he could see better.

“Oh, God,” he said.

“Sorry,” I muttered, aware that I was bleeding on his shoes. It would never come out, and he was almost certainly going to try and bill the department for them later.

“Leland, it's okay. It's going to be okay,” he said, and it was then that I started to get a little worried, but only a little. Sure, I was in pain, but everything was under control now. I was just so very tired.

Then he was stripping off his jacket, quickly followed by his shirt, and I almost giggled. Either this was some bizarre dream I was having, or Monk had completely taken leave of his senses. As far as I knew, Monk had been cured of his nudity phobia, but that hardly meant he now embraced the concept. I could still imagine him getting dressed in the dark, or closing his eyes in the shower so he wouldn't ever have to confront his naked self. But now he was practically doing a striptease act right in front of me.

“'s hardly the time,” I tried to say, but it wouldn't come out clearly, and then I realized he was tearing up the no-longer-pristine white shirt, using it as a pad for my wound. Even after having been worn it was probably the most sterile thing in a five-mile radius, and the warmth of it was strangely comforting. I remember him moving my hands, which seemed to have lost all feeling in them, and replacing them with his own. After another moment he released one of them to fumble for something from my belt.

“Phone,” he said, almost dropping it in his haste. “Need to call. Somebody.” He flipped it open with one hand, staring at it helplessly. The other stayed firmly pressed against the makeshift dressing.

“Give it to me,” I said. All I wanted to do was to shut my eyes for a second, but the panic in his voice told me that it was important I hold it together just a little longer. The phone had survived relatively unscathed, and there was a signal; at least we had that much going for us. I pulled up the contact list with difficulty, smudging the screen and keypad with blood as I did so. He would just have to deal with it. “Names… like this… green button to call. Got it?”

“Y-yes,” he said. “I think so.”

“Great,” I replied, and then I passed out.

Due to the quarry's out-of-the-way location, it took around forty minutes for the police and ambulance services to get there, Natalie told me later. Monk spent those forty minutes in the near darkness, twenty feet away from a restrained killer, kneeling in the dirt, half-naked, his body covered in sweat, his hands covered in blood. She said that when the paramedics finally arrived on the scene they had had difficulty deciding who needed help most urgently.

  
***

  
He was still there when I woke up, only everything was much brighter and shinier. I hate hospitals. They smell like death and misery, hidden beneath a desperate barrage of cleaning products. Monk probably felt right at home.

Somehow he had managed to doze off sitting in a bolt upright position in the hard plastic chair. He looked exactly as he always did, crisp pleats in his trousers, white shirt perfectly ironed, jacket pressed. It was almost as though last night had never happened, except that I seemed to be attached to several pieces of tubing, and my side hurt like hell. One other thing seemed slightly out of place - one of Monk’s hands was resting casually on the side of the bed rather than safely and hygienically in his lap. But it was good to see him and to know he’d gotten out okay.

I watched him for a little while in silence, not wanting to interrupt the peaceful rise and fall of his chest, but I was thirsty, and the water jug beckoned from the side table. The tubes and stitches restricted my movements, and the maneuver was trickier than it looked. I ended up spilling some of the water onto the table, and the bed. And Monk's hand. This woke him up instantly, and one flailing sweep of his hand knocked the plastic tumbler and its contents to the floor.

“Oh, God, I'm sorry, I'll…” He was on his feet immediately, reaching for tissues which he saturated one after the other in the puddle on the floor. Then he picked up the entire sodden mess, wiped up the traces with more tissues, and took everything in the direction of the bathroom, including the tumbler. I protested, but there really wasn’t much I could do to stop him.

I waited. I was still thirsty. I was on the verge of calling for a nurse when he finally came back.

“Washed,” he said, holding the tumbler up proudly before reaching for the water jug. “And sterilized.” Finally, he poured a precious glass of water and handed it to me. Our fingers brushed as he did so. He didn't seem to notice. I waited for him to wipe his hand on something, but all he did was move it away.

“So, are you… all right?” I paused before taking a sip of water, propped up awkwardly on one elbow. Monk looked distracted, fussing around the bed until he found the controls.

“Sure,” he said, a little too brightly. “Why wouldn't I be?”

He pressed a button and the head of the bed began to rise slowly, taking me with it. I had to shift around a little as it moved, but it was certainly more comfortable in the upright position. I finished the glass of water and put the tumbler back on the side table.

“I don't know. Just a little surprised to see you, is all. I thought you'd have gone home.”

“I did go home. I came back.”

“I see.” I really didn't, but this obviously wasn't going anywhere. “So, did they charge him?”

“Yep.” Monk sat back down. I noticed he had his hand on the edge of the bed again. “Double homicide, first-degree, no bail.”

“That's good news.”

“Yes. It is.”

And then he reached out, lightning-quick, and touched my bicep just below the line of the hospital gown, which I think startled both of us.

“What… exactly are you doing?”

“Nothing.” He wouldn't quite look me in the eye. “Just, er, straightening. Your… your sleeve.”

“Monk, it's a hospital gown. It doesn't _have_ sleeves.”

Even he had to concede the logic of this statement. I tried to stare him down, but he just looked miserable.

“I don't know,” he said at last. “I, uh, I was so worried out there, and…” He gave up again. “I don't know.”

“Is _that_ why you've been here all this time? So you could keep prodding me every five seconds to check I was still alive?”

“No.” Although now that he had been found out, it was as though some barrier had fallen. This time he touched me on the forearm. “Not really,” he clarified.

I jerked my arm away, irritated. “I'm fine, Monk. Really. See? Not going anywhere. Go home, get some rest like a normal person.”

I regretted it almost as soon as I had said it, but dealing with Monk and his nervous habits was enough to drive anyone to distraction. He was silent, his head bowed in shame.

I sighed. “All right, all right, I'm sorry. Thank you. You probably saved my life out there. Do whatever you need to.”

He twitched, and I could tell by the set of his jaw that he was trying very hard not to touch me again.

“No,” he said, grinding the word out from between his teeth.

“No?”

“It was you who…” He lifted his eyes to meet mine for a moment. “You pushed me out of the way. If you had… died…” His hands were clenched into fists now, and he was twisting his head away.

That was too much, and I reached out and rested my hand gently on his arm, which seemed to calm him.

“But I didn’t. You got us both back here safe and sound. I don't exactly feel like going square dancing, but I'm going to be fine,” I said.  
  
He nodded, but his hands were still clenched.

“I know that. The doctors said… But I had to make _sure_.” His fingers continued to twitch against the edge of the crisp white sheet.

“It’s okay,” I said. “I get it now.”

Slowly, he relaxed a little. “I'm sorry,” he said after a long silence, finally looking at me again.

“Don't be.” I took my hand away and went to pour myself another glass of water, more carefully this time. “Whichever way you want to look at it, it worked.”

  
***

I have been known to swear, more than once, that living on the streets would be preferable to having Monk as a room-mate ever again. But people kept telling me that I should 'have someone around' while I recovered, even though I didn't really need the help. Sure, it was a little awkward changing the dressing, and I couldn't comfortably walk very far at a stretch, but it wasn't anything I couldn't cope with. However, Monk was clearly determined to 'be there for me' all over again, and I didn't have the energy to fight him on top of everything else. I reminded him just how well this idea had gone last time, but his mind was made up.

At least this time it was my place, and I would set the ground rules. Absolutely no cleaning of any description between 11pm and 7am. Trash to be taken out no more than twice a day. He got one hour a day in the bathroom for personal grooming, no more. And the bedroom was completely off-limits, tidy or not. Monk would have the sofa-bed in the living room, which he insisted would be fine, while at the same time asking anxious questions about the number and quality of my vacuum cleaner attachments. “Just the one, I think” clearly wasn't the right answer - Natalie ended up carting over his own industrial-strength cleaner, along with several suitcases of clothing and what looked like six months' worth of cleaning supplies. She didn't complain as much as I might have expected - she was obviously already anticipating a nice, relaxing break from her boss.

It actually wasn't too bad, once I got over the shock of sharing space again - being on home turf made all the difference. And the apartment was undoubtedly the cleanest it had ever been in its entire history. On the whole Monk respected the ground rules I had set, but it did make him more twitchy than usual, and very soon it seemed like I couldn't walk two steps outside my bedroom door without being followed by furniture polish or a feather duster.

“Will you just sit down for a minute? You're making me tired just watching you.”

“Your stitches haven't fully healed yet. They could still get infected.”

“How? This place is cleaner than the hospital!”

The touching continued, too, although that was less aggravating than the cleaning. Maybe once in every ten minutes we were together in the same room, he would need to walk past and casually brush his sleeve against mine, or hand me something I didn't really need. I tried to stay relaxed about it. It served to remind me that in a way, this was his recovery time as much as mine.

The days settled into a routine. I sent him out as often as humanly possible - down to the station house with signoffs, to pay bills, to buy groceries. Those errands often took him a couple of hours at a stretch, and kept us both sane. I did a lot of reading, watched some terrible daytime TV, and got Randy to drop by every afternoon with departmental updates and paperwork, which was probably the high point of the day. In-between times I was treated to the regular pattern of cleaning, dusting, tidying and aligning he had managed to transfer almost seamlessly over to my place, but I at least had the bedroom to retreat into when it became intolerable. I did make the mistake of letting him clean in there one time while I made myself a sandwich; there was a shriek of horror, and I lumbered back painfully through the apartment to find him washing his hands frantically in the bathroom. I should have warned him about those magazines in the bottom drawer.

Evenings were more peaceful. Monk would cook, and after dinner (and another hour cleaning the kitchen on his part) we'd usually end up on the couch in front of the TV, or reading, until I got tired enough for bed. Nightfall always made him more anxious, and the touching increased correspondingly; eventually, I told him he might be better off just leaning against me, which at least stopped him twitching long enough so we could sit there in peace, me with my nightly beer, him with his glass of water. It was odd, but comfortable enough. I was curious to see if he'd insist on pushing the coffee table off a little crooked, like he did at home, but here he left it as neatly aligned as he did everything else.

Two weeks passed, and amazingly we still hadn't killed each other, but the strain was showing. I was more or less healed up, and had started looking forward to getting him out of the apartment and going back to work. The department had offered me counseling, which I had declined, but three mornings a week Monk kept his regular appointments with Dr. Kroger. I didn't know whether the therapy was doing him any good; often he seemed to come back more agitated than ever. Or maybe the therapy was the only thing that kept him from being any worse than he was already. God forbid.  
  
It was after one of the sessions, on a Friday morning, that I finally discovered what had been going through his mind all this time. We'd agreed that it would be the last day of his stay, and he'd already made a start on packing before going off to see Kroger. That gave me a little breathing space, and I was sitting on the couch trying to digest the latest B&E statistics for the precinct when he came back. It was easy to tell it was him - he always scraped his feet on the mat exactly ten times before turning the key in the lock. It was his own early-warning system.

He walked in quietly, saw that I was trying to work, and promptly began to pace the short length of the living area. Up. Down. Up. Down. Up…

I couldn't stand it a moment longer and looked up from the report.

“You keep doing that, you're gonna wear a path in the carpet. Then it'll be uneven.”

That stopped him briefly in his tracks. He rubbed his hands together, giving me a look of desperation.

“Captain, I… Leland. We… need to talk.”

“You know, I never liked that phrase when Karen said it. I like it even less coming from you.” This wasn't the first ‘discussion’ we’d had since he’d moved in, and I was almost sure it was going to be about the toilet seat. Again.

He walked over and touched my shoulder quickly, then drew his hand back. I rolled my eyes, and shuffled the pile of papers over a little.

“Okay, what is it this time?” I waved at the empty spot on the couch. “Look, I’m sorry I keep forgetting to put it down. I‘ve been trying.”

He gave me a small, humorless half-smile, then sat down stiffly with his hands resting on his knees, not looking at me.

“No, no, no, nothing like that. You know… I’ve been seeing Dr Kroger for a while now, to, you know, talk about… things? Things that… happen…”

Okay, so it was going to be one of _those_ conversations. “Yes, I believe that’s what therapy is for.”

“And, uh, these last two weeks we’ve been talking a lot about you… getting shot, and the way I have to…” He touched me briefly to demonstrate.

“Uh-huh.”

“Because something… happened that night... that I never told you about.”

And that was fine by me, as far as I was concerned. I didn’t really want to talk about anything. I just wanted to get my medical clearance and go back to work. But Monk had always had trouble letting go - in this case, literally - and it was obviously affecting him a lot more. 

“Okay,” I said, resigned. “I’m listening.”

He went on with his head bowed, still staring at his knees. “While I was waiting out there, for someone to come… anyone… I had time to think. Lots and lots of time.” He shuddered at the memory. “Just watching you breathe, in and out.”

He looked up at me and his mouth stretched into a wistful smile.  
  
“And you know what I kept thinking? I kept thinking: ‘It should have been me’. It would have been so much easier that way. It would have been _perfect_. Then the worst that could happen is that I would get to be with her again.”

I didn’t need to ask who or what he meant. Trudy’s presence still colored every inch of his life. I opened my mouth to protest, but he went on.

"But you… if you didn’t make it, then I really would be alone. I never realized that before. I thought I already was. Alone.”

“That's not true, Adrian. There's Natalie, and Ambrose, and your dad…”

“No. It was always you. After Trudy died, when I needed to find some reason to keep going. You were always there for me. You would actually have died for me. You almost did.”

“That wasn't my plan. Really. It just happened.”

“Yeah,“ he said vaguely. “Just… happened…”

He stared off into space for a long moment. Then he seemed to focus again and turned back to face me, one hand creeping forward until the knuckles rested gently against my thigh.

“And then I… I made a promise, if you lived. Trudy was there, with me, in the dark. She said… she said it was okay.”

It was clearer now. He had obviously had some kind of trauma-induced hallucination, but he was insisting on treating it like it was real. I hesitated, not sure whether he had finally gone off the deep end, whether the whole experience had just been too much for him to handle.

“Monk, I think this is the kind of thing you need to talk to Kroger about.”

“I did. He said I needed to tell you.”

I shook my head, confused, but I let him talk.

“She said that… she knew I loved her, and that nothing I did could ever change that. And that I shouldn’t see you getting shot because of me as some kind of punishment, but as… a reminder. Another chance. When they said you’d be okay, I knew she was right. She always was.”

I was completely out of my depth by this point; the conversation might as well have been in Russian for all the sense it made. Monk was just staring at me, as though I should understand. His left hand was stroking my arm nervously, up and down, up and down. I thought of telling him that he was going to wear a path there too, but before I could, he was pulling me towards him, pushing his mouth gently against mine. I might have gasped a little, if only because I would have put the odds of Monk doing something so blatantly unhygienic at slim to none. It was… strange. Warm. Soft. He tasted of nothing but shades of mint, like layers one on top of the other.

After the initial surprise, my brain kicked in and started yelling at me from five different directions. I could almost see Karen's stare of horror and disbelief as she stepped hurriedly in front of Jared and Max, never to let me touch them again. There was Randy, his mouth hanging open in astonishment. I could hear the nasty whispers and snickers from all the guys down at the station, following me wherever I went. And underneath it all I could feel my hands shaking, my heart pounding.  I let it all go on a moment longer, and then I pushed him away.

“Adrian… I don't think… This isn't…”

His eyes were dark and liquid, terrifying.

“Okay…” he stammered. “Okay…”

He got to his feet and headed for the door, almost tripping over the perfectly aligned rug in his haste. I didn't try to stop him. Natalie came by later that evening to pick up all his stuff. She would barely speak to me, and after a while I left the room and let her do her job in peace.

By the time she left, I was exhausted. I lay in bed and watched the shadows move slowly across the walls.

  
***

I went back to work. For a few days I managed to forget everything in the rush of cases, the commendations, the friendly greetings in the corridors. Everyone had heard of my ‘nursemaid' and more than one person joked that I should actually have received the commendation for surviving two weeks with Monk rather than for getting shot in the line of duty. _If only you knew_ , I thought for a moment, and then pushed it away as firmly as I had done the man himself. I had enough to worry about as it was.

I managed to avoid him for three whole weeks, and might have gone longer if Claudia Trammel hadn't been found strangled in her very own trailer. Movie trailer, that is. That instantly made it a high-profile case, and we desperately needed him on it. I sent Randy over in person to try and soften him up, but it only made things worse. Randy was back in less than half an hour, with brazen curiosity in his eyes.

“I don't mean to pry, Captain, but… what on earth did you do to him?”

“What do you mean? Is he going to take the case?”

“You mean, is he ever going to come out of his apartment again?”

“Did you talk to Natalie?”

“Yeah. She's mad at you too.”

I groaned. “What does he want?”

Randy shrugged, and inexplicably started moving the paperweights around on my desk. I moved them right back. He smirked at me in a way I didn't quite understand.

“I guess you're gonna have to ask him yourself.”

  
***

“Monk, will you please be reasonable?” I had been standing there for over ten minutes, file in hand.

“I am… being reasonable.”

“Well then, could you maybe demonstrate it by opening the door?”

There was a long pause. “No.”

“Look, I’ve explained to you how big this thing is. We really need your help. Please. Adrian. As a friend.”

I realized as soon as I said it that it was entirely the wrong thing to say, but it was too late. There was an odd strangled sound that almost resembled laughter, and then the door finally opened.

“A friend. You mean _you_?” He looked pretty terrible, for Monk. He wasn't wearing a jacket at all, and his cuffs and the top two buttons of his shirt were undone. His pants were pressed, but lacked their usual razor-sharp creases.

“Monk, I'm sorry.”

“'Sorry' meaning 'after three weeks back on the job, you need my help'.”

“Yes, but I'm also… sorry.”

We stared at each other for a long moment in silence. There was nothing more I could do but hope that when he weighed up all the history we had together it would come down in my favor. Either he'd help us or he wouldn't. Finally, his face relaxed a little, and I breathed a small sigh of relief.

“I'll just straighten up a little and get my jacket.”

In not much more than an hour, we were on our way.

  
***

  
It was good to see him again, doing what he did best. The silence in the car was awkward, but once we reached the crime scene it was obvious that whatever issues he might be dealing with, he could still work. There was no real way he could avoid speaking to me, but he looked at me as little as possible and did not touch me even once. Natalie had already shown up by the time we arrived, and she immediately took charge of him like a mother hen, shooting me the occasional glare while Monk's back was turned. I didn't know what he had told her, and I wasn't sure I wanted to.

However, when Monk disappeared to poke around the back of the soundstage for some inexplicable reason, there was no avoiding her any longer.

“Captain, I don't mean to be rude, but… just what did you _do_ to him?”

“Why does everyone keep asking me that?”

“You don't understand what it was like! I was there. He just kept wandering around aimlessly, picking up things and putting them down again. He didn't pick up a dust cloth for _two whole days_.”

“Sounds serious. Did he at least vacuum?”

“It's not funny.”

I sighed. “No. I guess not. Look, Natalie, I can't talk about it. It's between Monk and me.”

“Is it about Trudy?”

The question threw me for a moment, and I frowned at her. “No. At least, I don't think so. Why?”

She shrugged and waved her hands in exasperation. “I don't know. He kept picking up her photo, talking to her, like he was asking her for advice, forgiveness… I don't know.”

“He doesn't really believe in God any more, but he believes in Trudy.”

“Something like that. Even now, he's all… I don't know how you got him to come out here, but he's still upset about it. I can tell.”

“Look, it's not easy for me, either.” I hadn’t meant to say it, but it was true.

That seemed to surprise her, and for the first time since we had begun talking she drew back and looked at me. The stern set of her face softened, and she put an instinctive, comforting hand on my arm. I couldn't help thinking how much easier things would be if it were Natalie. Pretty, blonde Natalie, instead of a guy - and that fact alone was enough to make me question everything I thought I knew - a guy with more issues than Ben & Jerry's had ice-cream flavors. But then, nothing about my life ever seemed to be easy.

“Just talk to him.”

“I did talk to him. That's the entire problem.”

“Then maybe it's what you said.”

There was just no arguing with something like that, but at that moment Adrian came back around the corner. He saw us, Natalie still with her hand on my arm, and stopped dead. His eyes widened, and he looked from Natalie to me and back again. She detached herself immediately and went to his side, but he flinched from her. I shook my head in disbelief.

“Adrian, don't be an idiot. Natalie was just demanding I talk to you.” I walked over to join them. “And if you think about it for just one second you'll know I'm telling the truth. Now calm down and tell me what you found.”

After a long moment, and several deep breaths, he did.

It took three days, but this time we managed to close the case without bloodshed, if you exclude the paper cut Randy sustained from the script he tried to smuggle off the set. It seemed that not only could the sound guy not stand poor Claudia's voice, but he had an ambitious blonde starlet sister next in line for the part, too.

After I signed off on the case, the apartment seemed emptier than ever. I thought I had reached some kind of peace with what had happened three weeks ago, but seeing Adrian had somehow messed it all up again. He would have found that ironic.

I sat on the couch with my beer, staring at the TV without seeing it. I had often pitied him his empty life, but right now I wasn't sure I was doing much better. Even the apartment itself was a reminder of my failures. I couldn't afford to move until the lease was up, but everything about this place was inextricably linked with Linda. Even looking out the window I couldn't escape seeing the now-empty balcony across the street and thinking of her. Monk had kept warning me, and I had kept ignoring him, but in the end he had been right, and I had hated him a little for that, too. The ring had gone into the sea, but I couldn't lose the apartment or the memory of her quite so easily. She still wrote me sometimes, from jail, but I never wrote back.

I thought of Karen too, and the boys, now safely back in what used to be the family home. You couldn't dismiss twenty years of marriage just like that, either. Of course missing them wasn't anything like what Monk dealt with on a daily basis; at least my family were all alive and well and going about their lives. Just not - except for alternate weekends - with me.

Seeing him at work had shown me how strong he really was beneath that unstable surface. It must have taken so much for him to drag himself out into the world again after what had happened between us, and yet he had done it. For me, or for Trudy, or for the sake of the victim and her family, but he had done it. I never fully appreciated how hard it must be for him just to keep going, day after day, living a life so far removed from 'normal'. He did what he had to do and kept on going, while I was paralyzed by my own image of myself, and by what others might think of me. I constantly demanded miracles from him when I didn't have a fraction of his courage.

Truth is, I missed having someone around, even if that someone was an annoying, controlling pain in the ass. At least we’d had that much in common. I took another swallow of beer and noticed that the windowsills were already getting dusty again.

I drank. I thought. A little later, I decided to revisit the magazines in the bottom drawer. I thought of nameless busty blondes and I thought of Adrian.

In the morning, I made a doctor's appointment.

  
***

Five days later, I knocked on his door.

This time he opened it almost straight away. He looked much the same as he always had. Maybe nothing had changed after all. Except for the watchful, wary look in his eyes. That was new.

“Captain?”

“Adrian.”

He twitched a little, head to shoulder, but managed to keep going. “What is it? Another case?”

It was eight o'clock in the evening. I was dressed in a cap, red checked shirt and jeans. I wasn't carrying my weapon. He must have seen all this, but he'd asked anyway. As if that were the only possible reason I would ever seek him out again.

“Not exactly. Can I come in?”

“In, what, in? In _here_?”

“That's usually what 'in' means.”

“It’s just that I was, uh, just about to, uh… sure. Why not?”

“Thanks.”

He didn't actually move aside until I stepped forward, and then he hurriedly made room as though I were contagious. Then he shut the door behind him and waited.

This wasn't going to work. That was clear now. We were just going to stand in the hallway and look at each other until I chickened out and went home. Unless I did something about it, and fast. _Don't screw this up, Leland._

“You know, I have no idea just how many bacteria can be found in the human mouth, but I'll bet you do.”

“Billions.” Monk's voice was noticeably shaky, but resolute.

“That many.”

“Yes.”

“And yet that… doesn't bother you in any way?”

He managed to shrug and twitch all at the same time, an impressive feat. “It never did… with Trudy.”

It was permission enough. I stepped forward slowly and put a hand on his jacket, giving him time to adjust, or to run and hide. He just stood there, twitching slightly, barely breathing. I took off the cap, and tried to silence all the voices in my head, the fear, the panic. If he could do it, then I could too. Then I leaned in and kissed him. This time, I let myself mean it.

It was terrifying. The pit of my stomach went into freefall. At that moment I didn't know what this was, or what it might be, only that it was happening. It was like clinging to the back of a runaway horse; to let go meant certain death. The only hope of survival was to hold tight and pray. And I did. This time it was he who tore himself away, breathless.

“Leland.”

“Yeah.”

“I think I… might be about to pass out.”

“Well, I'm not picking you up off the floor if you do.”

He smiled nervously, nodded, and put a steadying hand on me for a moment as his breathing slowed. Then he tilted his head back to look at me again. His eyes were bright.

“Could we… could we do that again?”

It seemed far too late to argue about it now. This time his hands finally came to rest on me, running over my shoulders, my back, making up for lost time. I knew that if anything was going to happen between us, it would have to happen slowly, but I couldn't help rubbing against him slightly, not knowing if his reaction would be shock (likely) or awe (unlikely) or just plain disgust (discouraging).

His hands stilled for a moment, then one trailed downwards to stroke me gently through the rough denim. I held my breath, and then let it out in a long sigh.

“You know you… don't have to… do that.”

“I want to.”

He let me take off his jacket, but I didn't go any further than that. I was still a little afraid to touch him anywhere much, in case he suddenly freaked out and changed his mind. Between the two of us, it had been known to happen. So I mostly stood there and let him touch me. One of his hands slowly worked its way around to the back pocket of my jeans, where there was a soft crinkling sound as his fingers brushed the piece of paper I’d tucked in there earlier.

“What… is that?”

“'s for you. Take it.”

We stopped for a moment and I stepped back as he held it up and unfolded it. At first he looked puzzled, and then the corners of his mouth quirked up in a smile. He actually chuckled.

“Hepatitis B, negative. Hepatitis C, negative. HIV, negative. Syphilis, negative… oh, it's… it’s _beautiful_. Thank you.”

“Okay, okay, you don't need to go through the whole thing.”

“Of course I need to.”

I watched him as he finished reading the report before folding it up again in perfect fourths and glancing back at me. I shrugged.

“I thought you'd want to know. Before we, you know, got around to doing anything.”

I think that sheet of paper convinced him of my sincerity more than anything I could have said. Things went on from there, and eventually we ended up in the bedroom, sometime after he’d finished the painstaking procedure of removing his shoes and socks. Some things just couldn't be rushed.

It wasn't exactly the most romantic encounter I’ve ever had; for starters, he was still wearing his shirt - at least he'd managed to unbutton it all the way down - and pants, and I still had my jeans on. At first he could barely look at me, but he made a valiant effort, smoothing his palms over the bare skin of my chest with determination. For a moment I forgot and suggested we turn off the lights, but apparently darkness trumped nakedness. We ended up in a half-sprawl on the sheets, where I continued with the kissing, because that seemed to have a calming effect on him. And quite the opposite effect on me.

Before too long his eyes had completely lost their usual glitter of anxiety and were looking a little unfocused, a little dazed, which I took as a good sign. When I finally reached out to unbutton his slacks he only sighed and closed his eyes. His fingers continued to stroke me absently. Judging from the physical evidence I was discovering, he was definitely a _willing_ partner, but I hesitated anyway before touching him.

“Adrian? I want you to be sure…”

“Oh, I'm _sure_ ,” he said, spinning the last word out into a smug, relaxed drawl. I couldn't help smirking. He sounded drunk.

After a little more fumbling with buttons and fabric, we were finally stroking each other, skin against skin, partially hidden under the covers. He started to moan, a little breathlessly. For someone normally so uptight, he seemed, temporarily, to have no inhibitions at all. Despite everything that had happened between us, he seemed to have total trust in me, and that was both humbling and a little frightening. I wondered how strong Trudy must have been, to have loved someone who needed her so very much. I hoped that I could be as strong.

I kissed him again, and then shuffled a little closer. I brought my hand down over his, wrapping it around both of our erections, and continued the steady, relentless rhythm. Before very long Adrian's hand was tensing under mine, gripping us both tighter, and his body began to jerk wildly.

“Leland… OhGodOhGodOhGod…”

I groaned and shut my eyes, and in another minute or two it was over. It left us both messy and sweaty and breathing hard. I lay there, mostly spent, but a little part of me was still on the alert, waiting for Adrian’s reaction. But he did nothing more than burrow his face into my shoulder and lie there. Finally, I relaxed into a light doze.

After some time, I woke up, and it was obvious the brief respite was over. I could almost feel the tension radiating from him as I shifted onto my side. He was lying on his back, hands lightly clenched, staring at the ceiling.

“I think… I really think I need to clean up now.”

I reached over to pat his arm. “It's okay. Go on.”

He got up and disappeared for a long while, then came back fully dressed in his pajamas, carrying an armful of damp washcloths, disinfectant solution and air freshener. I lay back and closed my eyes as he gave everything, including me, a thorough wipe down.

“Now I, uh, need you to get up.”

I opened my eyes again, unimpressed. “Why?”

“So I can…” he gesticulated, hands full, “change… the sheets.”

“Adrian,” I said, and I swear I was all patience and understanding at this point. “Let me explain this to you, slowly. You've had a shower. You've cleaned me. You've cleaned the bed. You’ve even cleaned the lamp shade, and we didn’t go anywhere _near_ that. And I’m happy to let you futz around all you need to with the Glade, but I - am - not - getting - up. Okay?”

He looked at me, then swallowed hard. “Okay.”

After a few more moments, he put everything down and reluctantly crawled back into the slightly damp bed, shuddering. He lay there for a while, clearly tense, but I wasn't about to budge.  I just rolled over and put an arm around him. Slowly, by degrees, he seemed to unclench until his eyes finally drifted shut.

“That's better,” I said, and reached for the lamp switch. “’Night, Adrian.”

He mumbled something incoherent. I turned off the light.

***

And that's where we are now, more or less. He still has his apartment and I have mine, but I’ll rethink the matter next year when the lease comes due. We fight, we adjust, we compromise. At one point I even went to see Dr. Kroger to try and get a handle on his problems, but Kroger seemed much more interested in discussing mine. I ended up learning more than I wanted to. But on the whole Adrian does seem a little calmer now, a little happier, and maybe that even works both ways.

Natalie knows everything and Randy knows nothing, although I have seen him casting the occasional speculative glance at us when Adrian leans over to touch me at odd moments. Or else he’s known all along and he’s just being discreet, which would prove that there really is a first time for everything. I haven't had the heart to tell Karen, mainly because Jared and Max are growing up fast, and they already have enough to deal with in their lives without knowing what Dad has with that weird Mr. Monk. The risk of losing one or both of them over it scares me more than anything.

Which does make me something of a coward, and I’m not proud to admit it. But if being with Adrian has taught me anything, it's that sometimes you just can't help being afraid, and you can only deal with it as best you can. And live in hope that, maybe one day, neither of us will have anything left to fear.


End file.
